


Easy

by KyloReam



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Crying, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Homophobic Language, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pseudopsychology, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Unhappy Ending, Vomiting, Whump, conversion therapy, psychological self harm, this is bad and sad and I have no good excuse for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 23:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8687926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyloReam/pseuds/KyloReam
Summary: Hux is being reconditioned, reprogramming himself under the guidance of the ’techs to be more efficient, more rational, a better servant to the First Order.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a very dark mood and this vent fic happened. H/t to [saltandlimes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes) for giving me the courage to put this out.   
> **Please read the tags before reading this fic. Know what they mean.**
> 
> Fic title/inspiration: ["Easy"](https://youtu.be/RqSgSffvFGU) by Son Lux.

General Hux operates on clockwork. He rises every morning at 0500, takes his eight to ten hour shifts with no more than two thirty-minute breaks, takes a dinner in the officer’s dining hall for no more than an hour, partakes in whatever recreation activities are available but is in his quarters no later than 2200 before marking himself off as “asleep” by 2300. Five times a week, he spends his off hours in the training rooms either exercising or practicing marksmanship, although he is also known as a lover of words and has a large collection of flimsies and holorecords. He takes time out of his schedule to meet with or speak to his father, often trading stories about his successes as a commander. 

Every seventh day, Hux goes to the medbay after he finishes his afternoon shift to Starkiller Base's psytech ward. The rotating group of psytechs who treat him are professional and discreet, placing him in various private rooms away from the eyes of any Stormtroopers who are being processed for routine reconditioning. Hux is also being reconditioned, reprogramming himself under the guidance of the ’techs to be more efficient, more rational, a better servant to the First Order. The ‘techs know better than to make small talk, simply addressing him as “general” and guiding him through the appointment’s proceedings.

The sessions begin with medication, an injection close to his groin and a sublingual tablet that make the therapy possible. As Hux waits for the tablet to dissolve, the ‘tech fits him with a neural headset, affixing the nodes onto his forehead and against his temples. They place a monitor to measure his heart rate onto his right index finger, and a thin net of electrodes, shaped like a pair of briefs, over the modest boxers Hux currently wears. He settles back into the treatment chair; it’s very much like the ones used in the interrogation rooms, complete with bands which snap his arms and legs into it, making it impossible for him to move away. During his therapy sessions the psytechs are always cognizant of his reactions, allowing him to break away from reconditioning if bodily functions occur. 

Hux has been going to sessions for so many weeks that he barely registers the ‘tech’s words. He knows what’s coming: he’ll be instructed to think of something that makes him happy, something that makes him angry, fearful, sad. The thoughts come easily: his promotion to General, the rage he felt after being belittled before the Supreme Leader, growing up under his father’s care, the sense of emptiness he feels of being in his thirties and single. He focuses on each thought until the ‘tech signals for him to switch, allowing them to map out what regions of his mind are stimulated by the memories. He breathes a sigh of relief as he switches, the tinny ping of the sensors a small comfort. He’s always felt a bit nervous about the next part of reconditioning, in which he allows his thoughts to wander. It’s dangerous territory, one Hux has tried to avoid all his life. Here in this room, he has no choice but to give in.

He shuts his eyes, lets the thoughts flicker past. It’s cold in the room. His hair needs a trim. He can hear the whir of the air circulating through the room, and if he tries hard enough, he can hear the white noise generator just outside the room, adding an additional level of soundproofing. He wishes he had his gloves on, he feels naked without them. Kylo Ren’s gloves look so— 

An electrical shock — light, just barely grazing him — shoots out across his groin and around the bracers that anchor him to the chair. It jolts him upright, makes him pause for a moment. The psytech looks at him for a moment before Hux nods his head, signaling for them to continue. He shuts his eyes again, thinks about the dinner he has to look forward to tonight, wonders if he’ll get to see Ren with his helmet off, look into his emotive brown— 

He’s shocked again, the intensity just a fraction higher, lasting momentarily longer. Hux wants to apologize, wants to tell the ’tech that it isn’t always like this, that he _has_ made progress, that Ren isn’t in his every waking thought. He tries again, and again, and again, and his thoughts keep straying. Ren’s voice behind his respirator, crackling above the background noise in the command bridge. The dark waves of Ren’s hair poking out from beneath his helmet. The lingering touch caused by Ren brushing, ever so subtly, against his shoulder in the hall. Ren’s muscles flexing beneath his training shirt, Hux’s fingers scrabbling to touch. Ren’s hair in fuzzy braids, his face and arms and neck covered in a salty sweat. Ren’s unlovely face, his mouth slightly agape, looking tantalizingly kissable.

The shocks keep growing in intensity and it’s painful, but Hux grits his teeth, tries not to think about the tears currently streaming silently down his face. He’s driving Ren out of him with every terrible fleeting thought. The pain around his cock (and it’s growing hard, an embarrassing but necessary side effect of the earlier injection) keeps growing, signifying that he does not want this, that he cannot want this. It’s useless to think otherwise. Others could want this; Hux knows which officers in the First Order hold his predilections, but he…

Hux can feel the unsettling sensation of his guts churning, of the cold sweat that’s starting to spread across his body. He sniffles, swallows down the saliva pooling in his mouth. It’s too early for him to be feeling this; the drugs can’t possibly be making him feel this. Ren’s face flashes before his eyes, looking concerned, a hand extended. It’s met with another shock, one which does _nothing_ to still his erection, and Hux takes steadying breaths, tries to get his bearings. Through the ringing in his ears he hears the ‘tech tell him to visualize the completion of the intrusive thoughts. He squeezes his eyes shut, licks his trembling lips, exhales.

He takes Ren’s hand. It’s bare, larger and warmer and rougher than his own thin hands, and he traces over the calluses with his index finger. Ren smiles at him so sweetly — has he truly seen Ren smile? What is he using as a basis for these thoughts? His gaze is so soft, softer than Hux thinks anyone has ever looked at him, and he has no right to be looked at in such a way. The terrifying thought of pressing his hands into Ren’s wild hair fleets through his mind, but Ren remains serene. “Armitage,” he says, curling his hand around Hux’s, gently pulling him forward. Somewhere outside of this vision Hux can feel the sweat beading on his forehead, the saliva, the tear tracks on his cheeks, the fact that it’s growing harder to breathe evenly. Ren is so large, so warm, he places an arm around Hux and hugs him close to his chest, tilts his head down and kisses Hux’s furrowed brow. Hux leans up, mouth watering, meeting his soft lips.

Hux’s eyes snap open as he gags, fighting the vomit rising into his mouth. He thrashes in his seat, tries to signal to the psytech, but they’re already at his side, a receptacle in their hands. Hux has no choice but to let them hold it by his head as he tilts his neck down and retches. The heat and stink of it hits him, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut and stifle an incriminating whimper. His throat burns, his head hurts, his soul feels heavy, he wants nothing more than to tear off his limbs. Beneath it all he can still feel the after-effects of the shocks to his cock and testicles. Wordlessly, the ’tech passes him a glass of water, holds it in place so he can drink it down and cancel out the dry heaving. Hux feels a damp cloth being pressed to his forehead, feels it swab around his mouth and chin and neck. He draws a shuddering breath. 

“It’s okay, sir, you’re okay,” says the ‘tech. “The worst is behind you.” Their words are meaningless, easy things that Hux can easily brush off. He realizes he’s shivering, his lips still trembling. 

“My f-father,” he starts. “He knew.” 

"You don’t have to talk now."

Hux swallows, breathes in and out. “No. He knew. That I was weak. Useless. Knew I was a faggot. Couldn’t beat it out of me, couldn’t starve it out of me, sure as fuck couldn’t teach it out of me.” Hux is horrified by the shakiness in his voice, as incriminating as his frail body and emasculated face. “He’s been waiting for me to fuck up. Fucking forget my father, I’ve been waiting to fuck up.”

“You haven’t fucked up anything, General.”   

“I have!” Hux shudders, putting as much emphasis into his words as he can. “Could barely keep my hands off myself as a teen, even into my twenties. I’m a pfassking pervert! A pervert, and a faggot, and a bastard.” He has a tic going above his left eye, wishes he could scratch it, but of course he’s only afforded the ability to move his head so he gives in to furrowing his brows. “I’m not even strong enough to deal with this on my own.”

“Reconditioning…isn’t a sign of weakness, sir.”

“For me it is.” Hux can feel the pangs of a headache beginning behind his eyes. He tries to think of anything that might convince himself of progress. “It’s working, though. I’m repulsed by….I’m repulsed by him, now. I’m feeling anger toward him more often, not the,” he bobs his head, “you know…sad-but-happy feelings. Most of the time.” He furrows his brow. “More than last standard month, at least.”

“I noticed,” said the psytech. “There are completely different areas of your brain that light up now versus three standard months ago. Have you thought about the next stage?”

“I have. There’s an officer — a female officer — she’s older than me, but she’s been very gracious around me.” Hux swallows. “She’s from respectable stock, too. I think we would be well matched.” He feels his mouth watering again, reaches for a glass of water to chase down the aftertaste of bile. Hux is suddenly aware how exhausted he is, finds himself wondering if he should return to his quarters without taking dinner in the cafeteria. He could call in dinner, something light that wouldn’t hurt his stomach. The thought only serves to remind him of what he’s here for, how he needs to stop yielding to his body’s weaknesses. 

“Anything else you want to discuss?”

Hux freezes. Stars, of course there is. There’s the worry, of course, that he’s never going to get better, that he’s too much of a degenerate to recover. There’s the fear that he’ll never be desirable to anyone, even to a woman. There’s the well of emptiness that still exists, and Hux isn’t sure how to fill it other than by overcoming his greatest fears. There’s the lingering shame that he’s wrong. 

“No, thank you,” he says at length. “I’m ready.” 

He’s dressed down to his undershirt and boxers, so it’s easy for the psytech to administer his weekly injection. The extended-release compound hisses through the syringe; it’s a drug to control his libido and fertility.  When Hux first began treatments he campaigned for a higher dose, for a biweekly or even monthly treatment, but was discouraged against it by the department head for triggering unwanted side effects such as breast tissue growth or depression. As long as Hux doesn’t have to experience the treachery of unwanted arousal or the shame of ejaculation, he is content. After a weekly session, he feels like the injections are a prize, the proverbial kiss on top of a bacta patch. Of course, he wishes he didn’t have to experience this weakness, but in the aftermath of treatment he always feels a fraction cleaner, closer to being perfect.

Hux takes a few more unhurried breaths before stilling his unquiet mind. He dresses in silence, thanks the psytech for their time, and returns back to his role as General.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
